


R is for Red and Red is for Bood

by DefenderoftheDogma



Series: Hawk and Dove Compilation [11]
Category: Hawk and Dove (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hank is not okay, Heavy Angst, Hurt Hank, Hurt No Comfort, dead don, don is dead, except he is not a brother anymore, hank is a loving big brother, hurt hawk, the scene comics never saw fit to give us, these are the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefenderoftheDogma/pseuds/DefenderoftheDogma
Summary: Rubble splintered under his fingers and fell back down in little rains of crushed brick and dust. Orange. Orange. Grey. Orange. Rubble shifted and he saw something new. Red. Dove didn’t bleed. But Don did.Don dies under a red sky and leaves Hank behind. My take on what could have happened directly after Don died since the comics never tell us.





	R is for Red and Red is for Bood

**Disclaimer: I own what rocks dream about.**

 

The sky was red. Usually, Hawk liked red. It was power and chaos and, personally, Hank considered it the ‘color of his power’. It was also a color that tended to show up when he was doing his job _well_ … though Don would probably disagree. Don tended towards the running around saving civies part of the job. The boring part, that he was still doing now.

 

Hank felt a shadow demon splinter under his fist. It had been one of those weeks. A few days ago he’d been in the best brawl of his life. Bar none. Supervillains holding two Earths hostage and an _army_ of heroes coming to take them down… low civilian casualties: villains were too busy for needless killing so there wasn’t much of a point. Just constant baddies to pummel. He’d lost track of Don once, but they’d hooked up again safe and sound, so that was alright.

 

Now, this. This was shaping up to be a very bad day.

 

Hank didn’t really mind war like Don did. People died. Sometimes they were good people. That was bad. But. That happened. It happened and you moved on with your life. But this was… when the night-black sky had splintered and shown it’s true color and the shadow demons came down… it wasn’t even a real war, not really.

 

Hank had never seen so many people die, and they weren’t even soldiers. The demons didn’t target the strongest, they just zeroed in on the closest thing: and usually, that was a pregnant mom, a little kid, some Joe going about his day before everything went did… this.

 

He wondered how many people Don had really saved. How many just lived a few moments longer before… He’d yelled that at Don. Repeatedly. Kid kept saying he had to try. Since learning from each other had ever been a hallmark of their relationship, he yelled it again.

 

“We can’t save everyone while fighting the enemy!”

 

Screaming rang in his ears, cutting off the first part of Don’s response. Idiots. The demons would zero in on noise.

 

“...we’ve always fought our two wars differently. You with your fists and me with my heart. And nothing’s changed, even after all these years.”

 

Don (typical of him to give a sanctimonious monologue in the middle of battle) raced forward to two sobbing children. Hawk was about to turn back to the important stuff when he noticed something. That building… the wall wasn’t safe. It was…

 

“Dove! Move, get out of the way!” Dove had to see it, he had too. He was _more_ perceptive than Hawk, he _had_ to see it he _had to see it_ …

 

Dove was fast. Hawk was faster. But Don had a headstart and Hank wasn’t even in range of the rubble when it fell. The screaming and the sobbing continued and Hank’s chest unclutched in relief because if the kids were alive then so was Don.

 

But the kids were alone and covered in grey dust and orange rubble and Hank couldn’t see blue anywhere. 

 

Hank wasn’t ready to think yet. Diving toward the rubble, he felt his fingers unclasp into claws, tearing through the decimated concrete. “Dove, talk to me, Dove!” Don never stopped talking. “Dove!”

 

Rubble splintered under his fingers and fell back down in little rains of crushed brick and dust. Orange. Orange. Grey. Orange. Rubble shifted and he saw something new. Red. Dove didn’t bleed. But Don did.

 

Dust was in his mouth and nose choking him and rubble was tearing at his fingers as fast as he tore it away and red was sliding through orange _mocking him_ and that was yellow Don needed a haircut nonononono

 

“Don.” His voice was grey: cracked and weak and with no life no life nolifenononono…

  


Yellow. Red. Paler than peach. Red. Blue shirt, grey pants, RED.

 

Don was human. He wasn’t supposed to be human, he was supposed to be a superhero, immortal, untouchable, something that didn’t have blood to bleed.

 

But Don had always preferred being human over being immortal. Hank thought that was ridiculous. If you were human you had a heart. And those had an awful tendency to get broken.

 

* * *

 

No more demons. No more shadows jumping out of the sky to steal away little brothers. There were still crumbling buildings and trapped children that needed to be saved, but not for Hank. Hank was going home. Don was coming home.

 

He found the house. Washington had been ravaged but it was still standing. The door was off it’s hinges, the electricity was out and broken glass was scattered on the floor, but it was still standing. No one was here. Mom and Dad… who knew. Maybe Hank was the last one. Maybe Mom was hugging Don now and Dad was making sure everyone was okay. Hank trudged up the stairs to his and Don’s room. Was it his room now? No, it would always be Don’s too.

 

Hank paused in the doorway, eyeing Don’s bed, the light blue of the bedsheets barely visible in the dim light. Hank had had enough of corrupted blue. Don’s blood mixed nicely with Hank’s crimson blankets. Trembling, Hank slipped to his knees beside the bed. He thought, in a removed kind of way, that Don looked peaceful. Most of the dead people that Hank had seen hadn’t looked peaceful. They’d looked terrified or agonized. So maybe there was that.

 

Hank couldn’t stand to be still. Maybe Mom and Dad would get back soon and come up. Mom shouldn’t have to see Don like this. Hank walked into the bathroom and turned on the bathtub. Since DC was attacked so much, most people who could had a separate water supply. Hank didn’t know what had happened to the backup generator but at least the water still worked. Walking back to Don, he scooped the body into his arms (it was too small: Don just hadn’t learned to _get stronger_ ) and walked back into the bathroom.

 

Whatever the movies said, or the books, death wasn’t pretty or romantic. It was clammy inhuman feeling skin and glazed eyes that looked more at home in a mannequin than gazing soulfully and tragically into the beyond.  It was the excrement of feces and urine mixing in a nauseating smell and the stiffening of limbs and the drooping of those staring eyes. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t romantic.

 

But Hank was going to put every bit of care that he could into this final cleaning of his baby brother because he’d made a promise to take care of him. And the brave, intelligent _good_ person Hank would never see again deserved to be taken care of as best Hank could.

 

Gently he stripped red-stained clothes from Don’s body, carefully setting the watch on the sink. It was stopped, he noticed. Maybe time was stopped. He felt like it was. Gingerly he rinsed red into pale blue water, trying his best not to aggravate the lineage of wounds across his brother’s body.

 

By the time he toweled the kid off, bandaged his wounds as best he could, redressed him and laid him back on crimson sheets, he couldn’t stop thinking about his parents. Mom and Dad weren’t back yet. There was yelling in the streets, constant jubilation and insanity, even without the light of day. Hank didn’t know what time it was now, but it was well past sundown. Maybe… maybe they wouldn’t…

 

Hank reached out, two hands closing over Don’s smaller one. Don used to be afraid of the dark. Of shadows that took forms only he could see and threatened unimaginable dangers. Shadows that could only be avoided by the eternal safety of his older brother’s bed and arms, because _Hank had promised_ that _nothing_ could get past him and that Don could _always_ count on Hank to save him.

 

Apparently, neither of them had accounted for Hank not trying. For Hank being too far away, too busy fighting the shadows to remember the little boy with pale blue eyes and a bleeding heart.

 

Hank’s forehead dropped against Don’s, breath coming in rattling gasps. He was so cold… he got cold so easily… he was always wearing long sleeves before everyone else and even in summer sometimes he just _got cold_ for no reason and Hank had to keep him warm shock something about shock keep shock victims warm hank wasinshock and don wascold sokeepdonwarm keephimwarmkeephimsafe

 

Hank realized with a sudden jolt that he was sobbing, chest heaving against Don’s crushed ribs, fists clenching the sides of Don’s shirt. His face was buried in his brother’s neck and he could never remember a single time in his life that he had cried and Don hadn’t, in some way, comforted him.

 

He could have died, he realized, when Hodgins had dropped that crate on his head. If he’d died… maybe Don wouldn’t have been out there. Maybe He Could Have LIVED. Hank’s life for Don’s. It was a perfect trade, really.

 

Forcing his hand upwards, he shoved his fingers through Don’s hair. He didn’t pet him or stroke his hair he just… held his head against his own, keeping it steady, keeping it safe. Safety was a joke. A funny, funny, horrible joke.

 

Palming his brother’s cheek he pressed a rough kiss against his cut cheekbone. He hadn’t kissed his brother in years.

 

He could never quite remember what happened next: all that he knew was that something was _gone_ and he needed the something more than he had words for. Somehow the something had to do with the cold little figure in his arms, and somehow he needed to get the little figure to be warm and safe and to be _with him_ somehow.

 

Hank didn’t know much about words, but he understood raw emotion.

 

By the time he remembered himself again, he was stretched out along the length of his brother, hands cradling his neck and head, Don’s head tucked into the crook of his neck and tears cracking along his cheeks.

 

Raw emotion. So much raw emotion. He noted, detachedly, that after crying his face was rather red. And though it could have been a trick of the light, the pallor of Don’s features almost seemed blue.

 

And their parents still weren’t home. Hank couldn’t stay there any longer. Doing nothing. If he did, he’d have to feel again. He wasn’t ready for that. Right now he only felt a dull throbbing ache throughout his being, and that was so much better than the unadulterated agony of a few seconds ago. He brushed Don’s hair back, slightly. Scooted backwards and laid Don prostrate on the bed. Smoothed the wrinkles he could: Don was always so worried about looking presentable.

 

Breathing deeply, he staggered downstairs. Mom and Dad would come here, if they were alive. Falling into a chair, he settled down to wait.

 

Perhaps half an hour later the door creaked, swaying on it’s remaining hinge as something brushed passed it. The solid form of Irwin Hall moved in first, cautious and guarded against unexpected dangers. Rae’s smaller form moved in behind him, arms tucked against her chest, steps short: anxious for something and obviously eager to move through the house, searching for her sons.

 

Hank stood on shaky legs.

 

“Hank!” Rae exploded into motion, bursting onto her firstborn son, and holding him with all the tightness she could muster. Irwin moved in behind her, hanging to the side and scanning over Hank for any signs of injury, a relieved and joyful smile etched into his face.

 

Hank didn’t resist the hug, but didn’t return it either.

 

“Hank. You’re alright.” Rae pressed her face into Hank’s shoulder, before moving back, taking in her son, and pulling him tight to her chest. “You’re alright. You’re okay. Those monsters are gone, and they don’t have you.” She cupped his face in her hand, hugged him one last time, cheek against his chest, and pulled away, releasing a deep breath, turning away and running her hands down her sides, brushing away at immovable wrinkles.

 

“You’re alright. Now.” Another deep breath released. “All we have to do is wait for your brother. He’s smart, he can keep his head down, you’re really the one I was worried about!” Rae glanced at Hank, nervous laughter convincing no one. “He knows what to do. He’ll be here as soon as he can. We’ll just… wait for him.” She plastered a smile to her face, turning back to Hank with forced courage.

 

There was a tightness to Irwin’s eyes, but he hadn’t stopped smiling.

 

“Mom.” Hank wondered if the cracked dry thing echoing in the room could really be his voice. “Mom. Don’s not… he isn’t…” Isn’t going to come to you with his problems again. Isn’t going make you cookies on Mothers Day. Isn’t going to read with you over a pot of tea. Isn’t coming home. Is never coming home again. “I was with him. We were together. There was a… a building. And some kids were by it and he… Mom, he was such a hero.”

 

Rae took a halting step forward, lines carved into her face. Irwin wasn’t smiling anymore.

 

Hank wanted to tell them that Don had been a superhero. That he’d been a _Titan_ , that he’d saved the world and _done things_ most people could only dream of. But they’d decided not to tell. And Hank wouldn’t betray his brother’s choice now. The choice they had made together, when there was a together.

 

“Hank, where is my baby.”

 

Hank’s eyes were burning, but that couldn’t be right because he’d decided not to cry. “Mom, you should have seen him.”

 

“WHERE IS MY BABY?”

 

Hank wasn’t sure how any words got around the rock in his throat. “On my bed.”

 

Rae fled the room and dashed up the stairs. Irwin moved to follow, gaze holding on Hank for a second before he followed his wife.

 

Hank’s shoulders slumped and his head dropped.

 

Rae’s wails rent the house.

 

Hank fell to his knees.

 

The sun rose and tainted the sky red.


End file.
